My Lord Raven (Knights of the Royal Household)

Chapter Fifteen

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Bran’s index finger tapped impatiently on the arm of the lord’s great oaken chair. In front of him stood the castle cook, who literally held a scruffy kitchen boy by the ear. Hopping on one foot, the boy cocked his head to one side in order to ease his obvious pain. His mouth was tugged into a tight line of even more obvious distaste.

“My lord, this urchin is lazy and shiftless,” the cook wailed. She then recited a list of the lad’s offenses.

Bran tuned out her strident voice but nodded his head from time to time so he appeared to be attending. Already this morning, he had heard the grievances of two freemen whose cattle had strayed into each other’s fields, condemned a murderer to death, and settled another land dispute. All before the noonday meal.

He had no idea how tedious the process of securing his lands would be. For someone who had ne’er owned more than good battle armor and a string of fine horses, he found it ironic that in the space of one day, he was now called upon to resolve petty complaints as well as life and death matters.

He much preferred the not so tedious task of securing his heiress.

Satisfaction filtered through him, causing him to smile. For a glorious moment, he relived the feel of the fine texture of Olwen’s hair and her unconscious responsiveness to his touch. How he had loved the sensation of her lying in his arms.

He had not had a woman in so long, and now this woman was his.

A twinge of regret pricked him, tempering his male pride in ownership. He knew full well his lady wife hated him. Because of his reputation. Because of what she thought he had done to her uncle and cousin, and whatever love she bore for the reckless young earl.

Bran gripped the arms of the chair. He did not need Olwen’s affection, but he did need her obedience. That he would secure.

The castle steward stood at his right shoulder. “Cook oft finds fault with this lad,” he whispered in Bran’s ear.

“Then why has nothing been done about the boy?” he demanded, frowning in displeasure.

Father Ellis looked up from where he sat behind a roughhewn table, transcribing the day’s events. “Christian charity, my lord,” he said. “The boy is an orphan.”

Bran had been an orphan once. After his mother had died, his grandmother had raised him. When she died, by chance, his father’s aunt arranged for him to be fostered in East Anglia, far away from his native Wales and any embarrassment he could bring to his princely father .

Bran shifted in the lord’s chair and leaned forward to assess the young scullion. “Stand straight,” he ordered.

Cook released the culprit’s ear and the towhead boy stiffened his spine and squared his shoulders. Although dressed in rags, the lad returned a look of rebelliousness.

“What is your name?”

“Will.” The boy spit out his name as if a curse.

Bran glared at him. Minutes passed and those around them stilled, watching the drama unfold.

Finally the boy understood the unspoken message. He dropped his gaze and stuttered, “Will Tabor, my lord.”

“Why, Will Tabor,” Bran wondered aloud, “do you defy yon cook and the charity of the good Christians of Northbridge?”

The boy sulked, shifting from one foot to the other. Then he mumbled, “Because I dislike washing dishes.”

Bran hid a smile with a scowl. “’Tis not because you are naturally lazy and disobedient?”

“No, my lord. I just don’t like it.”

“Have you another preference?”

The boy glanced up, his eyes widening. “I would much prefer working with horses.”

“Harrumph!” The cook reacted but dared not speak, cautious in front of the new lord.

Bran sat back in the chair and surveyed the scene before him. The eager lad, the surly cook, and the curious castle folk all awaited a decision that would brand his tenure as lord and master. For sure, he had no use for a shirker or for someone who defied orders at Northbridge.

In spite of that, the destitute scullion evoked an empathy Bran thought to ne’er feel again. Verily, he had tried to put his homelessness behind him .

Bran brought his fingers up to his chin in the fashion of a steeple, his thoughtful silence deepening. Afore he had not been master over others. He did not count Rhys, for the sergeant-at-arms was more friend than servant. Granted, he led other knights in battle, but this new power o’er the lives of those who served him and owed him homage was new to him.

So why did he delay? This lad needed discipline. Yet something stirred within as he admitted a deep truth to himself. By rights, he had not put his early, orphaned days behind him. It drove everything he did. E’en now, it colored his view of the defiant boy.

“Rhys, take this lad to the stable. Put him to work. Tell the groom to flog him if he disobeys even once.”

A murmur of astonishment spread through the hall. Rhys collared the lad and dragged him away before the startled boy could mutter thanks.

The cook, however, was another matter.

“I am now one less worker in the kitchen, my lord,” the woman protested. “Where am I to find more help?”

Bran deftly evaded the issue. “Yesterday, I paid tribute to your fine venison,” he said heaping on the praise. “I told my new wife that in all my travels, I have not seen such a fine presentation or tasted such a flavorsome dish.”

The cook bobbed a curtsy, pleased by the compliment. “Thank you, my lord.”

“Father Ellis will reward your efforts on behalf of our wedding feast with a small token of our thanks.” He glanced at the monk and then rose to his feet ending the audience. “I am near famished. Let us have our dinner.”

The servants sprang into action, and the great hall buzzed with the business of preparing the room for the major meal of the day. Bran stepped out of the way, retreating to the hearth, where he stretched out his hands toward the fire.

Visions of the fire in Olwen’s eyes intruded upon his thoughts. He stared at the flame, reliving his wedding night, her drunkenness, and her challenge to his rights. Would she have killed him? In truth, what was this Gilbert to her?

Had her cousin Gilbert courted her? Made promises and maybe done something more? Nay, Olwen was a virgin. He had proven that. Mayhap, the two held a fantasy between them, nothing more than chivalrous words and secret messages of children growing up together.

Was this why did his wife wanted courtly love? He knew not how to sing or write poetry. She was his now, and he need not bother himself with such whimsy. Further, he need not cultivate such prettiness of speech. Had not he experienced her body ready for his? Had not his simple touch ignited the passion she thought could be roused only by pretty words? Why her contradiction?

Olwen was not indifferent to him, no matter her hostility. This pleased him. Yet he knew he must go slower, bring her to the peak so she toppled over the edge before he reached his own climax.

Bran brushed a strand of hair from his eyes. Aye, he had rushed her, because of his long privation keeping himself pure for his wedding night. Tonight would be different. He would take care to satisfy his wife’s needs. He knew a well-sated body went far toward tempering a churlish disposition.

“My lord?”

Bran started and turned to find Rhys beside him. “You have not forgotten your training,” he said smiling at his friend and servant. “Furtiveness has long been one of your greatest skills.”

“’Tis not hard to sneak up on someone whose thoughts lie between the sheets.” Rhys chortled and clapped Bran on the back. “Look there. I see you will be kept busy while I am gone.”

Bran’s senses gave a bound. He followed the direction of his sergeant’s gaze. Olwen had entered the great hall with her deportment stiff and correct, her head high, almost haughty. She wore again an elaborate headdress that banded her chin, and a golden net crespine confining her hair. He was sorry for that. He liked her hair draped around her breasts and crushed in his grasp.

“I unlocked her chaste treasure last night,” Bran admitted, letting his pride unfasten his tongue.

Rhys laughed again. “We know.”

Olwen was no longer a virgin, and everyone recognized the fact, thanks to the fur coverlet he had sent down with Father Ellis.

“I find myself desiring my wife’s charms.”

Rhys nodded. “As any bridegroom should.”

His sergeant understood him well. Gratitude rose within Bran. And love. He tried to curb the intensity of his emotion, knowing ’twas best to remain detached, even from one as faithful as Rhys.

Silently, they watched Olwen circle the room, keeping her distance from them. She greeted each one of the servants politely, even regally, as if she were forcing herself to appear untouched by her change of status.

How did it feel to be exhibited as a man’s trophy?

The question drew him up short. No matter, she was his. He had earned her .

Bran brushed aside the prick of disquiet. His concern for her feelings should have died the moment he awoke with the tip of a dagger biting into his throat.

Now he cared only for the rumble in his belly. “Come, good friend, let us eat, and then I’ll send you on your way.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Catrin inspected her husband and his sergeant standing near the hearth. She kept her distance from them, focusing on the castle folk she met, making sure she didn’t do anything to give away her identity. She had not been to Northbridge in two years, and although several of the inhabitants had changed, many remained the same. ’Twould not do to slip and reveal herself by mistake.

She would do better to remain closed up in the solar, but the cheerless atmosphere weighed heavily upon her mood.

Or was it the recollection of what had transpired there in the early hours before dawn that shamed her?

Even thinking about it drew heat to her face. Flustered, Catrin nodded her head in a perfunctory manner at a chambermaid, hoping beyond hope the old woman saw nothing amiss.

When the sound of the Welsh sergeant’s laughter punctuated the hall, heads turned. Even Catrin stopped and looked. Bran leaned near in the manner of long-held camaraderie, telling his small companion something in confidence.

Jealousy stabbed her, and she turned away in dismay. Why should she care if that beast whispered secrets to his sergeant? In truth, he probably bragged about the wedding night, making ribald boasts, as men were wont to do.

Fury now assailed her. And panic. Fighting to regain her composure, Catrin pulled herself up even straighter and pasted a smile upon her lips.

“Lady Olwen?”

Dread surging through her, Catrin whipped around to face the man she’d falsely wed. His black eyes flashed before he bowed as if he really was a courtier, and then he offered his arm in invitation.

“May I have the honor of escorting you to dinner?”

“You had my honor last night, my lord, if I recall,” she said.

His head snapped up and smiled. “I find that I am hungry still.”

She grasped his double meaning. Two could play the game. “Then you shall have to eat heartily at dinner.” She lifted her chin as she placed her hand lightly on his sleeve. “For I shall not satisfy you, my lord.”

Catrin looked away from him and smiled stiffly for the benefit of those assembled. The castle folk watched them and possibly overheard. She tried not to think. She tried not to react when he covered her hand possessively with his. Why did his very touch ignite smoldering embers of desire?

Bran led her in a stately procession around the room to the high table on the dais. ’Twas his statement of ownership. Of his new authority. He seated her then took the lord’s chair. Trestle tables had been hastily assembled and covered with cloth. Below them, as servants and tenants clambered over the benches finding seats for themselves at lower tables, the noise level rose. Better to drown out her thoughts .

And bank the flames she fought hard to control.

It did not help that Bran was so imposing, sitting beside her, smelling of woodruff and a musky, manly scent. Neither did it help that she was forced to dine with him, to spend several hours in his presence, when all she wanted to do was escape.

She should learn to accept this forced intimacy as penance for her deception. If only she could discover the truth, the sacrifice of her virginity would be vindicated.

Rhys brought a towel and a basin filled with water. Bran offered the basin first to her, and she dipped her fingers into it to clean them.

“I know not how I will manage without you,” Bran said after he washed his hands and returned the bowl and towel to his sergeant.

“You have always been self-sufficient,” Rhys said with a grin. “Now your new wife will attend to you while I’m gone.”

Where was Rhys going? Catrin had too much pride to ask. Instead, she feigned indifference, ignoring Bran’s chuckle and lifting her chin while surveying the great hall with all the haughtiness she could muster. Fortunately, Father Ellis rose for the blessing.

After he finished, a procession of servants began, each one bearing food. First the pantler marched to the head table bringing white bread and butter. After serving the lord and lady, he turned to distribute barley bread to the rest of those assembled. Next came the butler and his assistants, who carried wine for the head table and beer for the rest. Catrin eyed the brimming cup of Boudreaux placed before her on the table, her stomach heaving.

Perchance she would go without wine at this meal .

Unlike the wedding feast, today’s meal was simple and blessedly not as lengthy. The first course consisted of chunks of Stilton cheese and a clear chicken broth that they ate with wooden spoons from wooden bowls. Catrin sipped the broth and nibbled at the cheese but dared not touch the brimming goblet.

“You do not drink, my lady,” Bran observed, his shoulder dipping much too close to hers, his wine-scented words whisking across her face.

“I am not thirsty.” How much straighter could she sit? Surely, her posture transmitted her message of disdain.

He murmured a low sound of amusement and drew the goblet away from her. “Rhys! See that my lady has a good claret, flavored with honey and cinnamon.” He turned once again to speak like a parent. “The claret will aide your digestion and relieve your soreness.”

Heat suffused her cheeks. “You had my maidenhead,” she whispered sternly, “but if you please, do not reference it for all to hear.”

He tilted his head and sat back away from her, seeming to relent. Only the grin upon his lips told a different story.

Rhys brought a new goblet. Then he cut the trencher, a thick slice of day-old bread, separating it into two pieces to provide place servings for the lord and the lady. Next, two young men carried a whole deer impaled on a spit. Having been spit-roasted all day, its steaming juices dripped onto the rushes. Rhys served his master a hunk of venison.

“Ah, Cook! Thank you!” Bran called out. “The aroma is enough to whet even the most finicky appetites.”

Catrin saw his sidelong glance. Her eyebrows drew into a frown at the off-handed tease. All morning she had watched him from the squint that overlooked the great hall. He had dispatched the cases brought before him as lord of Northbridge with wisdom and justice.

Bran sliced a juicy morsel of meat and, like yesterday, offered it to her with his fingertips.

“I wondered why you allowed that kitchen boy to go to the stable,” Catrin said before accepting the bite with her lips.

“Did I please you as I did last night?”

The dual meaning of his words overwhelmed her. Chewing slowly, as she was once again forced to succumb to his offerings, just as he had forced her last night, Catrin fought for a pointed comeback. “I take my pleasure in many ways,” she replied. “One is by helping the poor and downtrodden.”

“And I by remedying a prickly situation,” he said smoothly, as if it held no import. “’Twould not do well to flog one so young. This way I gain a stable hand and rid yon cook of a scallywag.”

So much for her thinking he was somehow moved by the boy’s plight. “Are you always so calculating?”

“When it suits my purpose.”

Catrin turned away and grasped the goblet. The spicy claret went down easily. She sat the goblet aside and patted her lips with a napkin. “Does it not suit your purpose to show Christian charity?”

He sat forward. “If it will please you, then I shall be more forthcoming with my benevolence.”

She grunted. “Nothing you can do will please me.”

“ That you have made perfectly clear.” His voice became lower, menacing. “’Tis why I send Rhys to search for the murderer of your cousin.”

“To what point? ”

“To find the truth. To clear my name.” He smiled slightly. “To make my life with you tolerable, Olwen.”

She lashed out, “Never call me that!”

He bowed his head, mocking. “You have my apologies, my lady .”

Why was she so upset? Didn’t she want to learn the truth? Wasn’t that why she switched places with Olwen? She hadn’t expected Bran to also seek the truth by sending his trusted servant away. It reeked of artifice. She didn’t trust him. How could he honestly seek Gilbert’s murderer, being the killer himself?

Catrin turned to him, her eyes narrowing. “I had two cousins, my lord. Outlaws surprised Lady Fitzalan on her way to Clun. They killed her and her serving maid. Will your sergeant search out their murderers as well?”

“I had heard of Lady Fitzalan’s tragic death, but not of her maid.” He steepled his fingertips together under his chin and surveyed her. “Do you believe ’twas something more than highwaymen?”

Catrin swallowed, fearful that she’d betrayed too much. “Call it woman’s intuition,” she said. “I have oft been known for my innate skills of divining the truth.” There, another little lie would do little harm. She didn’t want him to learn she had intimate details of the ambush.

Bran raised an eyebrow. “Are you a witch?”

“Witch enough to provoke you, it seems,” she scoffed.

Why remind him of last night? Because he goaded her, making her impatient. He brought out her foul mouth, causing her to recall words her brother’s randy friends had bantered and making her want to use them on him.

“Is that why I want to have you?” he mused. “Because you are a witch? ”

She lowered her eyes to hide an impulsive flush. So be it. She had gone this far. She would go farther.

Catrin glanced up. “Suggest to Rhys he search for a noble lord attended by a Saxon named Harry.”

“Harry?” Now it was Bran’s turn to snort. “How many Saxons are named ‘Harry’ after our king’s father?”

’Twas the only clue Catrin had. E’en so, she dared not acknowledge any more of the truth.

“Laugh if you will, my lord,” she said. “The name came to me in a dream. As if my dead cousin spoke it to me.”

Sacrilegious. Dangerous. What she suggested was serious, especially if Father Ellis heard. But ’twas far better to let him think her a soothsayer than for him to learn he had married the wrong woman. Woe unto her when he learned the lands he so desired were not, and never could be, his because of her deception.